


I Need to Know Now, Could You Love Me Again?

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Does Phonics, Friendship, M/M, Reading Out Loud, Tumblr Prompt, kid!Bucky, kid!steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3651666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky entertains Steve when he's feeling under the weather. Years later, Steve returns the favor.</p><p>Tumblr Prompt: Imagine Person A is sick. Person B reads them a story to make them feel better, even making the animal noises and silly voices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saltines and Soap

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Edge of Tomorrow again, and I got the song from the end credits stuck in my head.
> 
> There will be an angsty second chapter. I'm walking in late to the Stucky party, but I love these two. Tags will change once I add to this.

Bucky's legs burned from his sprint up the steps to Steve's apartment in the humble brownstone. He was panting as he knocked on the door, holding his catcher's mitt crooked under his arm. He counted the cracks in the finish on the door while he waited for his best friend to come to the door, listening for the sound of footsteps as he caught his breath.

He watched the prick of light through the peephole flicker for a moment, and the footsteps were slower, heavier; he realized that was all wrong. He heard the deadbolts being unlatched and the slide of the chain lock before Sarah Rogers opened the door to him, offering him a wan smile.

"Hello, Bucky."

"Is Steve home? We were supposed to play ball."

"I'm sorry, sweetie. He's not feeling well. I put him to bed." She took in his slightly grubby appearance; Bucky had changed into his battered play clothes, the short pants with patched holes and a gingham button-down shirt that was worn so thin from laundering that it was nearly transparent. He rolled a baseball in his grip thoughtfully as he listened to Sarah shoot down his plans with Steve, noticeably deflating. Sarah sighed at the hopefulness in his blue-gray eyes; her own had heavy dark circles under them.

"He was fine on the playground." And he had been, even when Bucky'd had to pull that Bergman kid off of him when he'd knocked Steve's glasses off into the dirt. They got into a scuffle, ending when Bucky ground his foot under his and shoved him, knocking him on his tail. That was first grade recess, right after the kindergarteners trooped outside in a neat line, when the teacher's back was turned. Bucky just stared down at Timmy Bergman, watching his face slowly screw up and his eyes glisten and fill, feeling no remorse as the bully hauled himself up out of the dirt.

"You'll get yours, Bucky!"

"From you and what army?” Bucky's skinny chest puffed out like a rooster's, his child's fists balled up at his sides. "Pick on someone your own size, ya pansy!" He stomped his foot for effect the way he would for an unfriendly stray mutt, and Bergman darted off. Bucky turned back to Steve, grudgingly helping him to dust himself off. Steve looked up at him petulantly.

"I don't want him to pick on _anybody,_ " Steve corrected him.

"Maybe now he won't," Bucky suggested. "Wanna play ball when I get home?"

"Gotta ask my sitter," Steve assured him as he checked his glasses, turning them in his hands by their stems as he put them back on. Bucky reached for them.

"They're all dirty. Here." He plucked them off his face and shined the lenses on his own shirt, and Steve leaned forward as Bucky wrangled them back onto his face, pushing them the last of the way up his nose with his finger. "Ask your mom if you can come to our house for dinner, too. We're havin' chicken."

"I dunno if she'll let me," Steve shrugged.

"Just ask!" Bucky cajoled, giving him a little shove. Steve ducked his face and smiled shyly.

"I know, I will," he murmured. The sitter, a harried-looking teenager in a blue blouse with a dotted scarf around her neck, came hurrying up to them. "Hi, Annie," Steve offered. She took his hand and gave Bucky a brief nod.

"We've gotta go, Stevie! Bye, Bucky!" Bucky watched them longingly as they left. Steve looked back, craning his neck around as she jerked him along, and he grinned and waved. Lucky stiff... Bucky almost missed being in kindergarten, if only because they got out earlier.

*

Sarah shouldn't have even been home, Bucky realized as he lingered at the door. She was still in her starched white nurse's uniform and stockings, but she wore her pink bedroom slippers on her feet. She hadn't been home that long. The inside of the apartment smelled slightly of bleach and furniture wax. Sarah's blonde hair was still in its bun, but a few strands escaped it, drifting over her temples. 

"I'm sorry, Bucky," Sarah told him, "but he really won't be able to come out and play. Annie said he threw up as soon as they got home, and he's running a high fever. He really needs to rest."

"Okay," he mumbled. The rest of his afternoon felt bleaker, lonelier without Steve. He tucked the ball into his glove and sighed loudly.

"Sorry, bub." She gave him a rueful smile. "I'll tell him you stopped by."

"See ya, Mrs. Rogers," he told her reluctantly as he turned away, but she was just closing the door after him when he had a thought. Bucky doubled back before he reached the stairs and gave the door a short, hasty knock. Sarah re-opened the door to him, slightly confused.

"So, Stevie can't come out, but can I come in? Can I see him?"

"Oh, Bucky, I don't know... he really isn't feel-" Her excuse was interrupted by a plaintive call behind her. Sarah craned her head around toward her son's voice. "What? What was that, sweetie?" She turned back to Bucky, holding up her finger. "Hold on, okay?"

"Okay," he said hopefully. She gently closed the door on him, and he rocked on his heels as he waited, then listened with his ear against the door. He could almost hear Steve's muffled words, then Sarah's response in placating tones. Bucky heard Steve's whining "awwww!" and what sounded like a promise of some kind, which Bucky could only guess. 

He heard Sarah's low footsteps returning and he backed away from the door innocently. She opened the door and sighed, smiling as she planted her hand on her hip.

"His Highness insists on the pleasure of your company. If you promise not to get too rowdy or rile him up, Bucky, the two of you can play _quietly._ Understand?" Bucky nodded enthusiastically, but she held up a hand. "Make sure you wash up first." She stepped aside, and he rushed in past her, dutifully setting his glove and ball beneath the coat rack in the hall. She made him troop off to the kitchen sink and wash his hands with her dish soap - grated soap shavings and water in a glass jar - and dry them hastily on the proffered towel before he was allowed into her son's room.

“Let’s see them,” Sarah told him. Bucky held out his hands for her inspection. She made a thoughtful sound, then nodded. “All right. You two can read or color if you like.”

“Can we listen to the radio?”

“Not right now. I want Steve to take a nap soon, Bucky.”

Bucky wasn't too disappointed; the old, battered radio was staticky and didn't always get the station he and Steve liked to listen to for the baseball game broadcasts. It was more fun to listen to them at his own house, anyway, when his father was home. George Barnes got excited and riled up over a baseball game, and it was entertaining to watch. Bucky headed into Steve’s room, hesitating just inside the door. “Hi,” he murmured.

“I’m sick,” Steve told him apologetically. He looked small tucked into bed. His glasses were resting on the small chest of drawers beside his bed, beside the little brass lamp with a squat white shade. There was a glass of water beside it and a sleeve of saltine crackers. Bucky helped himself to one and sat on the floor, leaning back against the bed.

“Your ma said you threw up.”

“Twice,” Steve admitted miserably. “Stomach hurts. Head hurts, too.” Bucky felt a pang of worry for him.

“Wish we could play ball,” Bucky mused. “Your ma said we could color?”

“I don't think I feel like it,” Steve sighed. His skin was clammy and pale, except for two hectic red spots of color on his cheeks. Bucky hated it when Steve got sick. It interrupted the best laid plans, like running in the park, sneaking peeks at comics in the pharmacy and scrounging up spare change to buy penny candy, and riding bicycles or roller skating in the park. 

But mostly, he only wanted his best friend to feel good.

“You like coloring,” Bucky argued.

“I just don't feel good, Buck,” Steve moaned. He picked at a loose thread unraveling from the satin binding of one of his blankets. Bucky handed him his glass of water, and Steve took a couple of noisy, shallow sips; Bucky listened to his raspy breaths bounce off the inner edge of the glass. Steve handed it back to him feebly, and Bucky set it back on the chest.

“So… Whaddya want us to do? Want a book?” Bucky went to the bookshelf in the corner and browsed its offerings. He ran his stubby finger over the colorful spines of each as he mouthed the titles to himself.

“I guess so,” Steve allowed, swiping the back of his hand across his nose.

“Sinbad the Sailor… Pinocchio… Three Little Pigs…” Some of the titles, Bucky knew by rote. “Hey, Chicken Little!”

“That’s a bedtime story,” Steve argued, but he was smirking like he did whenever Bucky had a plan that would get them in trouble, but that Steve would inevitably go along with, anyway.

“So? You’re in _bed,_ ” Bucky reminded him.

“Mom always reads me that one,” Steve whines.

“So? I can read it, too,” Bucky told him proudly. Steve gave him a skeptical look.

“Can you do all the animals?” Bucky grinned and nodded, clutching the storybook to his chest.

"Move over, Stevie.” Bucky plopped himself down onto Steve's bed, heedless of the motion of the mattress springs as he scooched up next to Steve. His friend winced for a moment. "Take it easy!" he grumbled. "My tummy hurts!"

"Sorry," Bucky murmured. Steve's motion sickness was legend on the playground after an incident on the merry-go-round. But he still settled himself next to him, close enough that they shared a pillow and were leaning shoulder to shoulder, with Steve easily making room for him despite his complaint. Bucky smelled like crackers and laundry soap and his skin was pleasantly warm. Steve settled down further into the covers and laid his cheek against Bucky's shoulder as Bucky opened up the book.

"Chicken Little was in the woods one day, when an a-ay-c..." Bucky paused over the word. "Corn. Acorn. Fell on her head," he continued. "It s...ssss...sk..." He sounded it out in lurching tones. 

"Scared," Steve supplied. His mother had read it to him often enough, but he was enjoying the sound of his best friend's voice and his closeness enough to accept - and even welcome - a few slip-ups.

"Yeah! Scared," Bucky agreed. "It scared her so much she... truh... tremmmm..."

"Trembled," Steve piped up again.

"I can do it!" Bucky insisted impatiently, but he was secretly grateful Steve saved him some time, feeding him the right word. Bucky loved math and had a more than adequate grip on his one thru tens, but reading was more of a struggle. Steve was a grade below Bucky, but he enjoyed grammar and learning to write; for a kindergartner, his penmanship was surprisingly neat, earning frequent gold stars. "Do you want me to read it to you or not?"

"I do," Steve argued grumpily. "Keep going."

Truthfully, he just liked the sound of his voice.

Out in the kitchen, Sarah fretted over a pot of soup, letting the concoction slowly fill the tiny kitchenette with the scent of chicken and celery. She stirred it absently for a few minutes, trying to decompress. As soon as she received the call at the ward’s nursing station from Annie that Steve was sick, she knew her shift was over. It would hurt them in the pocket, having to lose those hours, but it couldn't be helped. Sarah’s son was her world. Seeing that sweet face looking so grateful when she walked through the door of their apartment made her heart so full, even though it squeezed just as painfully to see Steven sick. A day off work meant shuffling through the bills, deciding which ones she could wait a few more days to pay, and scrimping pennies to keep milk in the icebox. It hurt to have so little for her son.

She decided it was time to get more comfortable and to start her chores. Sarah padded down the hall and listened to the boys’ muffled voices, taking in Bucky’s attempts at “quiet play.”

"Where are you going in such a hurry, Chicken Little and Henny Penny? said Ducky Lucky,” Bucky recited. Sarah lingered near the edge of the doorway, just out of sight, slowing to a tiptoe.

“Don't forget to quack,” Steve nagged. 

_“Quack, QUACK, QUACK!”_

She silently clapped her hand over her mouth to smother her laughter. Steve had no such reservations. He giggled at Bucky’s performance, making Bucky continue his impression and get distracted from the rest of the narrative.

“…I heard it with my own ears, saw it with my own eyes, and felt it falling on my head!” Sarah listened to Steve’s low sniggers of anticipation each time Bucky repeated that line; it was his favorite. Bucky was getting into it, and he had an entire arsenal of bird calls at his disposal, to her –and Steve’s – delight. By the time he finished the gobbling noises for Turkey Lurkey, her sides ached.

Bucky stayed for soup. He attempted to read Steve Three Billy Goats Gruff, but he nodded off.


	2. Visiting Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds a creative way to cheer Bucky up when he gets sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about piling on the angst in this chapter, but ya know… I just can’t. These two need a break. Pretty straightforward fluff.

The alarms on the telemetry monitors and Bucky’s strangled gasps and low moans jerked Steve from a shallow sleep, where he sat slumped in the uncomfortable guest chair. His bleary blue eyes fell on Bucky, who was gaping at his surroundings, the bland, neutral-colored furnishings and white, sterile looking walls of the hospital room.

“Buck! Bucky… don’t freak out.” He was freaking out, if the way he began jerking and tugging at his IV leads and the neck of his hospital gown was anything to go by. Steve launched himself from his chair and leaned over the bedrail, reaching for Bucky’s hands, shoulder, any part of him that he could grasp to ground him in the moment. “Buck, you’re in the hospital! You’re with me! C’mon, pal, it’s me, Steve! No! Don’t… don’t pull on that!” Bucky’s fingers were shaking as he tried to peel off the tapes, actually succeeding in pulling the cannula from his nose, making the hiss of the oxygen audible where it leaked out. Steve shook his head, frowning with that familiar divot between his brows. “Uh-uh. Put that back. You need that. You need that, too, pal, so leggo.” Bucky’s eyes were glazed and not quite focused. They darted to Steve’s face.

“Whuh…what? What’s this… where am I?”

“Hospital. Third floor med-surge.”

“Steve…?” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes briefly, taking a deep, rough breath. 

“Yeah, babe. It’s just me. I didn’t leave you.” The words needed to be said, accompanied by Steve’s warm, beefy grip closing around Bucky’s cool wrist. Bucky settled back down against the pillows, still fidgeting to get comfortable.

“Christ… Steve, how long was I out?”

“Twelve hours.”

“How did I end up here?”

“The Tony Express. Flew you here before they could even call the paramedics.” Steve offered him a wan smile, but his own eyes had dark circles under them, telling Bucky loud and clear that the serum wasn’t doing its job, and that Steve was fretting, burning the candle at both ends.

Fretting over _him_. Bucky swallowed, then winced. Steve released him, and Bucky regretted the loss of his warm grip. “Ice chips?”

“Please…” Steve headed out into the hall, and Bucky heard his smooth, deep voice inquiring from one of the CNAs where the pantry was. Within moments, he came back with a plastic pitcher liner full of ice chips, a plastic spoon and a bendy straw. “My hero,” Bucky rasped. “Feel… like I got hit by a truck.”

“Sounds about right. Omega Sentinel. Just about the same thing.” Steve used the spoon to fish out a few chips and held them up to Bucky’s lips.

“Don’t need you to feed me,” he growled, even as he lipped up the chips gratefully, but Steve pulled the cup back when Bucky made grabby hands for it.

“Sure ya do. Don’t want you spilling this all over you.” Steve stood poised to give him another spoonful. He smirked. “Here comes the airplane… “ He made whirring noises, and Bucky snorted and flipped him off.

“Why do I put up with you?”

“Ya got me,” Steve shrugged. “Your taste always was pretty questionable.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Rogers.” Steve gave him more ice and straightened his cannula.

“Yeah, lucky me.”

“Still look like hell, though. Go lie down.”

“Said the guy who got hit by five hundred pounds of cyborg.”

“It didn’t exactly tickle.”

“Thing was outfitted in vibranium. Tony disabled its microprocessor and shut it down.”

“That explains why I’m one big bruise all over.” Steve nodded, then looked away. “What?” Steve set the chips down on the rolling side table and stepped away from the bed, exhaling a gusty breath.

“When I saw you down, it… it just-“

“Steve. Don’t.” Steve’s throat felt thick.

“I almost lost it, Bucky.”

“I’m fine, Stevie. Don’t keep fretting-“ Steve shook his head, still looking away from him, and his hand was tugging at the hair at his crown.

“I almost lost _you_ -“

“You didn’t,” Bucky insisted. “You didn’t this time.”

“I already _did_ , once.” Bucky stared at his broad, tapering back and hunched shoulders, feeling the pent-up emotions and tension trying to leak through the surface.

“Rogers. C’mon. Yer standin’ too far away. C’mere.” He heard him expel a shaky little breath. “Steve. C’mere. Look at me.”

“You took that hit for me, and I almost. Lost. You.” 

“Look at me, Steve.” Steve slowly turned to face him, and Bucky saw the barely contained gloss of angry tears in those baby blues. “Babe, don’t be mad at me, _please._ ”

“You don’t get to risk yourself for me. You just _don’t._ ”

“Kettle, meet pot.” Bucky sighed, then huffed, a tiny smirk pulling at his lips. “No drama, Steve. ‘M gonna be fine.” Bucky sat up and began to fumble with the bed rail, looking for the latch.

“Quit it! Quit moving, Buck! You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Already have,” he grunted. Steve tried to stop him, but Bucky had his way. The bedrail thudded against the frame as Bucky released it. Steve crowded him back against the bed, sitting on the edge of it to grasp his shoulders. “Stevie. I get it. You were scared. I took a bad hit.” He wouldn’t tell him that he enjoyed the contact, felt reassured by the concern in his face, even if he felt he didn’t deserve it.

Didn’t deserve Steve.

“They had to do surgery.”

“What?”

“Surgery, to extract the thing that attacked you, Buck. Stark calls it a ‘nannite,’ or something.” 

“What the hell was it?”

“Hell if I know. Not my forte. It’s kinda like a computer virus, except it attacks organisms. Whole thing infected your nervous system. That thing traveled through your blood vessels, all the way up into your heart. It would’ve killed you.” Steve paused a second and licked his lips. “The Omega Sentinel released a whole swarm of them. Once we got you here, Tony programmed a code to disrupt the signals from the Sentinel, and they went offline before anyone else got hurt.”

Steve was tucking him back in, fighting his efforts at climbing out of bed. Bucky huffed, blowing a lank strand of hair out of his eyes. “Quit playin’ mother hen, Steve.”

“Eat your ice chips. Quit fidgeting and relax. Whole point of you being here is to get well.”

“I have to pee,” Bucky told him, voice all full of sass. “Might wanna show me where the can is.”

“Right here,” Steve told him, smirking as he held up the white plastic graduate urinal.

“Uh, no.”

“The nurses don’t want you to lose your balance and fall. Might open up your stitches.” Bucky gave him his Sunday-best you’ve-gotta-be-shitting-me look.

“I ain’t crammin’ my Johnson into a jug and pissing into it.” He noticed it had a handle on it and wrinkled his nose, snorting when Steve hung the thing off the bedrail by it. “Just help me up.”

“You’re hardheaded, ya know that, right?”

“You’re the expert on that. Got your picture next to the definition of it in Webster’s dictionary, punk.”

“You’re a jerk, y’know that?” But Steve plugged Bucky’s IV from the wall, letting it run on its battery backup and looping the cord from the pole before unwrapping Bucky from the covers he’d just piled back onto it. Bucky slowly swung his legs down to the floor, not liking the change in equilibrium and the slight wave of dizziness it caused. Steve huffed at the face he made; the bed shifted beneath their combined weight as Steve shouldered himself under the crook of Bucky’s arm. His metal fingers curled in the fabric of Steve’s Under Armor sweatshirt as he hoisted him up. Bucky had a brief flash of memory, recalling drunken nights in a mildew, darkened apartment, stumbling upstairs with Steve’s voice in his ear, shushing him so they wouldn’t wake the neighbors. Shouldering Bucky’s weight with considerable difficulty as they fumbled for keys, hearing Steve’s grumbled but goodnatured complaints about his whiskey and cigarette-scented breath.

Steve wasn’t struggling under his weight anymore, just moving slowly enough to let Bucky get his bearings in the flimsy slip-proof socks on the slick linoleum, carefully dragging the pole alongside him as they maneuvered Bucky into the tiny bath suite. 

“Could’ve used the bedside commode,” Steve pointed out. “Or the jug.”

“It’s a hospital, Steve. Ain’t gonna use a commode out in the open like I’m in a friggin’ prison stall,” Bucky snapped. He untangled himself reluctantly from Steve and eased over to the toilet. “I can take it from here.”

“Call light on the wall,” Steve reminded him helpfully.

“G’wan. Lemme piss.” He waved him out, and Steve smirked once Bucky shut him out, closing the door with a huff.

Steve sat back beside the bed and picked up the remote, flipping through the meager selection of channels when his cell rang from his jacket pocket. Steve fumbled for it and saw that it was an incoming call from Natasha, with her pouty selfie she took and sent to him, ordering him sternly that it was the only photo he was allowed to use for her contact card.

“Hey, Nat.”

“How’s the invalid?”

“Grouchy as hell. Seems like he’s beginning to feel better. I just helped him up to the bathroom.” She made a thoughtful noise.

“The serum must be working overtime. He shouldn’t even be conscious this soon after the nannites hit him.”

“He still looks pretty rough.”

“Clint and I are planning to swing by in a bit. Need anything?”

“A sandwich that doesn’t taste like cardboard.”

“Make it two!” Bucky shouted from the toilet.

“You’re on a soft diet til they see how well you tolerate it, Buck.”

“SANDWICH, Steve. Big one. Chop-chop.” Steve heard the low flush and rose from his chair, poised to help him back out.

“He’s being ornery.”

“I hear that about crusty geriatric guys. Oh. Wait…” He heard the smirk in her voice.

“Ha, ha.”

“Anyway, anything else?”

“Decent socks for Bucky. And his pajama pants.”

“The blue ones,” Bucky barked.

“They’re in the second drawer from the bottom,” Steve told her. “If I can think of anything else, I’ll send you a text.”

“Be there in a few. Don’t let him start giving orders and running the place, Steve.” Steve smiled as they rang off, then tossed his phone onto the bedside table when he heard Bucky fumbling with his pole.

“Damn gowns. Getting a draft. These places love letting a guy flap in the breeze.” 

“Nice view, though, Buck.”

“That’s enough outta you.”

“Hubba _hubba_.” Steve hovered, supporting Bucky with a hand at his back, “sneaking” a glance at his butt, easily visible through the open flaps of the hospital gown.

“I’m gonna be back on my feet soon enough, Rogers. I got a long memory.” But his face was slightly chalky from being up on his feet even for that short a span, and Steve hastily tucked him back into bed, rearranging his pillows and fixing the angle of the bed. “Man, I feel like crap…”

“Knock back out for a while, Bucky. Go back to sleep.” Bucky’s expression was wan, blue-gray eyes bleary as they rested on Steve.

“Can’t, yet.” Steve held up the ice chips for him, and he resumed munching on them while Steve went back to fiddling with the set. They paused on Duck Dynasty and watched about three episodes, with Steve asking Bucky every so often if he just wanted to rest, but Bucky kept fidgeting, his expression slightly fretful even as Steve tried to keep him comfortable.

Halfway through the fourth, Bucky finally nodded off, thanks to the gentle stroke of Steve’s fingers through his hair. His face tipped toward Steve in sleep, and he gripped Steve’s other wrist, hand locked around his comforting, steady pulse. He carefully freed himself when Natasha and Clint showed up, peeking around the edge of the doorframe.

“Is that Uncle Si?” Clint grinned as he approached, nodding toward the screen. “Catch the episode when they went to Hawaii. It’s a riot.”

“How can you stand that show?” Natasha wrinkled her nose as she breezed inside and set the bags on an empty chair. She came to Steve and coiled her arm around his neck, giving his temple a dutiful peck. “You look beat.”

“It’s not the Ritz.”

“I’ve woke up in worse places than this,” Clint said with a shrug. “Tell your best guy here that I’ll take his jello if he doesn’t want it. Especially if it’s the green kind.”

“Lime, Clint,” Nat corrected him.

“Nope. It’s green-flavored. You’re putting too much faith in it if you think fruit’s ever made its way into hospital jello.” They’d already had this argument over red Kool-Aid.

“How are you holding up?” Steve got up and retrieved a chair for Natasha; she sighed at him for his efforts, ever the gentleman even when he was dying on his feet.

“As well as you’d think.” He scrubbed his face with his palm, feeling the itch of stubble. “What’s the word from Xavier?”

“The Omega is a John Doe. Flatlined once the microprocessor was shut down.”

“How about his students? They make it back to Graymalkin okay?”

“Yup. Just pretty shaken up,” Clint told him. “But he’s trained those kids well. They were holding their own well til we showed up to take out the trash.”

“But they were just _kids_.”

“So was I,” Natasha reminded him.

“So was I,” Clint chimed in. Steve sighed. He held back the urge to tell them that his childhood with Bucky included swimming in municipal pools and playing stickball, not fighting mutant-cyborg hybrids.

“Stay with him for a minute, Clint.” Steve tugged gently on Natasha’s arm. “Walk with me?”

“Sure.” She looped her hand companionably through the crook of his arm as they crept into the hallway.

“How is he?” she asked quietly.

“Anxious. He’s on the mend, but he’s chewing on something.”

“So are you. You okay, Steve?”

“It’s not me I’m worried about-“

“No. It’s you _Bucky’s_ worried about.” She shook her head. “For two guys in their nineties, you both have the sense of a couple of twelve-year-olds.”

“He took that blast for me.” His fists were clenched; he caught her slight frown and folded his arms over them instead. “He can’t _do_ that.”

“Says the guy who jumps on grenades.”

“One time… it was ONE time…”

“Yeah, yeah… one _grenade,_ you mean.”

“It’s not me we’re talking about!”

“Maybe it should be. You’re tired, you saw the man you love get blown up by a vibranium-enhanced mutant – that same guy that you never let out of your sight, let’s just admit that – and you’ve got that ‘I should have gone back for him’ look on your face again that you know James wouldn’t want to see.”

“I should’ve-“

“No, Steve. There’s no room for ‘should’ve’ for people like us. Or for someone like Bucky.” She took a different tack. “Ever think maybe he couldn’t live with himself if he’d let anything happen to you?”

“It’s not up to him.” Steve’s tone was indignant.

“He’ll tell you how many ways you’re full of shit for even suggesting that. James loves you so much.” Steve’s mouth was dry and his eyes felt hot again. “So much, Steve.”

“I saw him go down, and everything just… stopped…” She curled her hand around his arm and rubbed his back. His muscles were tense, but she felt his brief shudder.

“I know.”

“I could’ve… lost…” The words were hot and thick, clogging his throat. He hissed a breath through his nose and closed his eyes, and Natasha wound herself around him, grounding him. He clung to her with all of his senses, the slickness of her glossy hair tickling his chin, the scent of her deodorant and toothpaste.

“Pull it together, Captain.” She felt his tear drip into her hair, and her arms tightened around him. “Blaming yourself won’t help. It makes him cranky.” Steve huffed something akin to a laugh. “Makes me cranky, too.”

“Right.” He wiped his eyes. Natasha stepped back and reached out to smooth his hair.

“Reintroduce yourself to a bottle of shampoo soon, Steve.” 

“Do I smell like a foot?”

“Yes.”

“On a scale of one to low tide, how bad are we talking?”

“About a six. Let’s go with ‘ripe.’”

“What did you bring for him?” He switched gears as they headed back to the room.

“Sandwiches. Two, in case he actually can manage one. Socks, some good ones. Undies for when he’s up and walking around, and I brought him the Superman PJ pants, are those okay?”

“They’re his favorite.”

“I threw in some magazines from the gift shop, but they didn’t have much. Figured you might like Rolling Stone more than Better Homes and Gardens or Golf Digest.” Steve gave her a grateful smile.

“Sounds decent.”

“I also raided your bookcase. Hope you don’t mind.”

“What’d you find in the bookcase?” Steve mentally sifted through the contents of his bedroom library, wondering what Nat thought was even worth bringing in to entertain Bucky.

“Peek in the bags,” she shrugged. Clint looked up from flipping channels and grinned.

“You could’ve been watching the Knicks game, man!”

“Wrong sport, Barton.”

“Knicks… suck,” Bucky muttered in agreement. He squinted up at the screen. “What happened to Uncle Si?”

“Nodded off, Buck,” Steve reminded him. He peered up at Natasha, who was opening a tiny can of Sprite and pouring it over a cup of ice chips for him.

“Did you bring food?”

“For you? Why would I do that?” she teased, but Natasha pulled out a white paper bag with two sandwiches packed into it. She handed Bucky the six-inch. “Take it easy. If it’s too much, try again later.” 

“Turkey? Wasn’t anything blander on the menu?” he grumbled as he unwrapped it, but the layers of cool, moist turkey, shredded lettuce, tomatoes and sprouts on a chewy Kaiser roll had a nice mouth feel and didn’t tax his taste buds or trigger his nausea. Steve kept peering through the slats of the mini blinds, watching to see if the room nurse was on her way to bust them for bringing Bucky food that wasn’t on his diet plan. He needn’t have worried; Bucky made a few bites in before losing interest in it. He tossed it back onto the wrapper and fell back against the pillows. “Can’t handle it.”

“We’ll save it for you,” Natasha assured him as she began to wrap it back up.

“You can have it, baby,” Bucky told Steve, who was diligently inhaling a thick pastrami and provolone on a Dutch crunch roll slathered with spicy mustard.

“I’m good, Buck. You might change your mind.” Bucky was looking pretty content with his Sprite, taking thirsty pulls through the bendy straw and groaning at how good the cool liquid felt on his throat.

The rest of Natasha and Clint’s visit included some debriefing on the outcome of the fight and an update on the autopsy of the Omega – or its microprocessor, at any rate, and Tony was apparently having a field day with it – and the two of them arguing over the remote. Natasha eventually wrestled it away from him, rather impressively, and changed his Fast and Loud for Iron Chef.

“C’mon, Nat, you like cars,” Clint whined.

“I love cars. But that show’s annoying.” Bucky yawned cavernously, and she gave him her best _seriously?_ look.

“Go back to sleep, James. We’ll get out of your hair.”

“Braid it up, first. M’hot. My neck’s all sweaty.”

“I would’ve done that as soon as we came, if you’d spoke up!”

“Please?” She ran her hand over his shaggy locks, brushing his bangs back from his eyes. Natasha dug into her large purse and fished out a spare ponytail holder and a comb. “You’re an angel.”

“You won’t say that when you feel better and I get you back to the gym to spar with me.” But she waved Steve away, making him huff his annoyance at having to vacate his spot beside Bucky so she could work on his hair. She gently untangled it and parted it evenly, then nimbly plaited it into a short, neat braid, triple-looping the plain elastic at the end. By the time she finished and Bucky collapsed back against the pillows, he looked exhausted.

“I’m whipped. Sorry, guys.”

“No worries, man.” Clint held out his fist for Bucky to bump. “Get your beauty sleep. You need it!” Bucky grinned and flipped him off. Natasha kissed his cheek, giving Steve one too when he groused “hey, where’s mine???”

“Behave. Don’t shoot anyone. Do what the nice nurses tell you.”

“I’ll pin him down,” Steve promised.

“I’m counting on it,” Natasha told him, smirking. She gave him a cheerful wave as she tugged Clint out the door after her. “Bye, boys.”

 

Steve reached for him, hand closing around his shoulder. “Want me to bail?”

“Uh-uh. C’mere.” Bucky scooched to one side of the bed and patted the space on the mattress beside him. “You’re too far away.”

“You need to sleep.”

“I need _you_.” He gave Steve the lazy smile he loved. “Come an’ take care of me, baby.”

“That bed’s not wide enough.” But Steve was already sitting on the edge of the bed, toeing off his sneakers.

“Plenty roomy,” Bucky argued. “What’s in that bag?”

“Dunno,” Steve shrugged. The bed bounced slightly as he got back up for a second to retrieve the overnight satchel. He rummaged through it and brought out the magazines that Nat promised, and he laughed as he retrieved a hardcover that triggered Bucky’s memories when he handed it to him. Bucky’s flesh hand stroked the old, cracked cover.

“You still had this?”

“Remember Samuel Prydeman? That nice old man who ran the florist shop down the block from us? His son Carmen caught up to me a little while back and gave me a box of old stuff that Sam had been holding onto for me before I went overseas.” The book of fairy tales was dog-eared, some of its pages partially torn and stained, but Bucky still settled back in bed eagerly, huddling against Steve’s warm bulk, stretching out his arm so his IV lead wouldn’t kink. Steve turned off the TV, tired of its droning noise.

“Sounds like his son’s a good kid.”

“He’s middle-aged, with a kid of his own,” Steve corrected him. “He was there cleaning out Sam’s apartment after he passed. Actually lives out in Deerfield with his family. But he was all excited to see me when I ran into him, and he gave me this back.” Bucky was thumbing through the pages, but the print swam on the page.

“Read me one, Stevie.” He yawned again.

“You’re already nodding off,” Steve argued on a low murmur. Bucky was arching against him, curling around him, warm and safe, and he knew he would never tell him no. “Which one do you want?”

“Jack,” he slurred. “an’ the Beanstalk.”

“Good one,” Steve agreed.

“Gotta… do the voices,” Bucky told him sleepily. “S’no good without the voices.”

“There was once upon a time a poor widow who had an only son named Jack, and a cow named Milky-White.”

“Can’t imagine why they named her that,” Bucky muttered, smirking.

“Ya gonna keep bein’ a smartass, or are ya gonna let me read you the book, Buck?” Steve gave him the side-eye, but it dissolved into a smile. He bumped his shoulder against Bucky.

“Carry on.” Steve’s voice had a dramatic lilt to it, which shifted to higher-pitched tones as he read the part of the old widow.

“What shall we do, what shall we do,” he fretted.

“Jack needs to get up off his fanny and get a job,” Bucky said into Steve’s shirt. Steve’s arm wound around him, and Bucky took over the task of turning the pages.

“So, he took the cow’s halter in his hand, and off he started…”

The story took them back to a later afternoon in Brooklyn, in a small apartment that smelled richly of chicken soup. In Steve’s mind’s eye, he could picture his old room, with model airplanes hanging from the ceiling and Bucky, taller than him, stretched out on his narrow twin bed, reading in his authoritative child’s voice, clucking, quacking, honking and gobbling for all he was worth to entertain Steve. Steve remembered the dry, crumbling saltines and watching the last of the bubbles dissipate from his half-finished glass of ginger ale. He remembered Bucky, warm and solid against him, his soft breath misting over his temple as he read.

Bucky was lulled by the sound of his deep, rich voice, shaping each character’s dialogue with it to amusing affect. Steve felt little thrills of contentment every time Bucky laughed or joked about his narrative, and his eyes continued to droop, features and limbs growing more lax. By the time Steve began his “Fee, fi, foe, fum!” speech, Bucky was snoring and drooling on his shirt. Steve laid the book on the overbed table and adjusted the covers. He kissed his hairline, just a brief caress of his lips.

“We’ll finish it tomorrow,” he whispered. “G’night, Buck.”

 

FIN.


End file.
